Pockets
by goblynn
Summary: Inspired by a conversation--I owe you one, Cassandra. *wink* ...Note: not connected to "No Mountain High Enough". One-shot.


She'd known him for years. Most of her life, really.

She was a wonderful little girl, pleasant as a teenager, and hard-working and friendly as a college student. She'd not changed all that much, really. So _he_ said, anyway.

That's what pissed her off.

And _that's_ what made her do what she did on the night she turned twenty-four.

*~*~*

"Thanks for going with me." She was leaning against the railing of the front porch, the door of her uncle's house only a few feet away.

He was standing across from her, blue eyes bright under his cap, and he smiled. "I can't think of anyone better to be with."

The movie had been average, the meal passable, but the company—oh, the company—was fantastic. She'd rather be with him than anyone else she knew, and it was flattering that he gave up his entire evening to be with her.

It wasn't that he wouldn't, normally, but that he was always so _busy_. It never failed: the moment they were together, something happened and he'd run off, dashing away to be someone else's hero.

But tonight—tonight nothing had gone wrong, nothing had interrupted them, distracted them…nothing had called him away, and she gloried in his presence. (Briefly, she wondered if she was so obvious to everyone else. _He_ certainly seemed oblivious, and the knowledge grated. Surely he knew by _now_ how she felt about him.)

"It's funny…I can hardly believe I'm twenty-four." She felt only mildly guilty for baiting him.

He smiled again. "You're still very young."

She tried not to grind her teeth. "Not as young as I used to be—not like when I met you." Oh, she was pushing it with that one.

He laughed, a warm sound in the cool darkness. "You were a little girl, then—but you'll always be a sweet little girl to me, no matter how old you get." His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and she knew it was meant sincerely, that he meant well.

But it didn't stop her. She launched herself at him, hands gripping the snug blue shirt he wore as she tugged him down to her level. Just as she pressed her lips to his, she saw his eyes—the disbelief, the shock—and closed hers. She nipped at his jaw, kissed him again, and drew his bottom lip between hers and bit gently.

The stifled groan was his undoing. She knew she had him, and pulled away, staggering back against the railing behind her.

His eyes were huge, and her name spilled out when he released a ragged breath. "What—why…?"

She shook her head, not answering, but came at him again, more slowly, resting her head against his chest. His heart thrummed under her ear, but he made no move to touch her.

He spoke her name, softly—a question.

She ignored it, sliding her hands down his sides and slipping them into the pockets of his trousers. Her fingers were chilled, and she curled them against his thighs, the warmth of his flesh leaching through the material and into her skin. She sighed. He relaxed under her, the tension bleeding from his body, and his hands rested at her waist.

A wicked thought entered her mind—immediately, she knew she shouldn't, but the thought was there, irresistible—and she thrust one hand deep into his pocket, pushing against the resisting cloth and brushing against his cock. She bit her lip against the smile she felt forming, against the rush in her veins. He suddenly pushed her away from his body, pulling her hands free.

"What are you doing?" His voice was hard, too.

"Searching for my car keys?" The joke was weak, but what did he expect her to say?

"I need to go. Good night." He leapt from the top step, landing and turning on his heel to face her. "Happy birthday."

"It could be better." She looked meaningfully at him.

"It can't. _I_ can't."

That was another thing she loved about him—he sometimes said more than he intended, often by how he said it. She followed him down the steps.

"You 'can't'? Not 'don't _want_ to'?"

His brow furrowed. "It's the same thing."

"No, it's not. 'Can't' means you're not able…not wanting to is a wholly different thing."

His jaw clenched, and she realized she'd gone too far.

For about seven seconds, that is.

In the first second, he grabbed her hand.

The second, third, and fourth seconds she spent being pulled around the corner of the house.

Seconds five and six were when he led her into the shadows of her uncle's garden.

In second seven, he whispered against her cheek, "Wanting is a great deal harder."

Then he kissed her.

She stumbled, surprised, and he caught her in his arms, sliding a hand against her lower back and pressing her against him…she reached out to touch his face, but he captured her hand in his, threading their fingers together, palm-to-palm.

Distantly, she recalled a line from "Romeo and Juliet", but ignored it in favor of the taste of his mouth.

He guided her further into the dark recesses of a small arbor, long-necked gourds sounding hollowly against one another as they passed, their lips never parted more than a few inches, a few breaths. Safely out of even the starlight, his hands glided over her—lightly, gently—and he pressed kisses to the insides of her wrists before tasting the skin at her throat. Her breath caught, her skin tingled—

He pulled away.

Her eyes opened, struggling to adjust to the darkness. Before she could call his name, she heard the gourds tapping against each other and knew he'd leaned against the arbor around them. He sighed heavily, a tremor in the sound.

She whispered as loudly as she dared. "Why did you—?"

"Don't you understand?"

"No."

"I _can't_—yes, it's very, _very_ different from wanting. But it changes nothing. We can't."

"Why?" She loathed the plaintive tone in her voice. "I know I mean more to you than this. I know _you_ mean more to _me_ than any of this." She spoke without thinking, but decided if she was in for a penny, she was in for a pound. Blindly, she felt for him, and when she bodily walked into him, she closed her hand around his arm. "Don't—don't go. Don't hide from me." She pulled his cap off, freeing his hair and curling her fingers into it. She tugged gently, bumping his nose against her forehead before finding his mouth with hers.

He was stiff, resistant, but she soon felt his hands slide around her waist, gripping her tightly and pulling her roughly forward. His lips burned against her skin, murmuring something she couldn't understand. In short order, her jacket was on the ground, her shirt unbuttoned and parted, exposing the pale skin beneath. Hot breath against her navel, warm lips beneath her breasts—her world was reduced to a pounding in her ears as he touched her.

She slid her hands down his arms, clinging to him as he familiarized himself with her form, and just as she thought she would die if he didn't do more, he froze, standing quickly and pressing a finger to her lips. She felt his presence move, felt his mouth by her ear—"Be quiet. I think your uncle is outside."

Not a moment later, she heard her name being called out.

"Here," he was whispering urgently, draping her jacket around her shoulders, "hurry."

She buttoned up as fast as her shaking hands would allow, hiding behind him in case her uncle turned on a light. He was still looking for her, muttering about hearing her voice and asking the unresponsive night where she had gone.

"Follow me." He was whispering in her ear again, and grasped her hand, pulling her along as he darted behind the house, circling around to the sidewalk out front. They emerged by some trees at the hedge, stepping out and turning toward the house as if they were only now arriving.

She prayed that she could act natural, and when her uncle called out again, she replied.

The older man peered out, shielding his eyes from the porch light. "Did you two just get back?"

"Yes—why?"

"I could've sworn I heard you out here a few minutes ago. That's odd."

She forced a laugh. "Maybe it was the television."

Her uncle looked hard at them, and she realized her hand was still safely wrapped in a much larger one. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, and she gave up.

Her uncle's eyes never wavered. "Hmm. Maybe it was." He looked pointedly at her. "Maybe it wasn't. You have five minutes. Say goodnight." He went back inside.

She looked down at their hands. "What was that for?"

He shrugged.

"He knows, doesn't he?"

A nod. "Your uncle isn't an ignorant man."

"What do we do now?"

He focused vivid blue eyes on her. "We say goodnight."

"Oh."

And, quite suddenly, he was kissing her, and she was kissing him back, and something ignited inside. She tore herself away, taking a step back and clenching her fingers. He looked at her, curious.

"It's too much."

"I'm sorry—"

She waved him off, silencing him. "No, no—I mean…it's—it's too much. I want too much."

He smiled at her; it had changed, somehow. "I understand."

She returned to him, resting her head on his chest. "I doubt it." Raising herself on tiptoe, she kissed him lightly, reaching down and sliding a hand into his trousers to give a long, hard stroke. He choked, eyes wide, and she palmed him once before extricating her hand.

"I take it back."

He blinked hard and looked at her, confused.

She smiled, the innocent look of her belying her words. "It's not too much. I think it's just enough."

The front door opened and her uncle called her name.

"I'm sorry, I have to go."

"Don't apologize, please." He kissed her again, there on the sidewalk, illuminated by the light from her uncle's house as the man himself stood backlit in the doorway. Breaking away from her, he gave her a nudge down the front walk. "I'll come for you tomorrow, if you want."

She bit her tongue, choosing instead to reply with, "I'd like that." She followed her uncle into the house, and he darted away into the night.


End file.
